


in the darkness there be dragons,

by MetaAllu



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Blow Jobs, M/M, Polyamory, Reincarnation, Rimming, Voyeurism, inevitable where im concerned im afraid, possible other pairings in the future idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-12-24 23:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12023205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaAllu/pseuds/MetaAllu
Summary: "We would have been for nothing. Defined by their histories. Distorted to fit into their narrative. Until all that is left of us is the monsters in the stories they tell their children."





	1. i.

There is a rustling of trees, the faint sound of water and shoes crunching underfoot over twigs and dry leaves.  The sun hangs, peeking through the trees above his head, warming his close-shaven scalp.  Distantly he can hear bird song and creaking wood, and in his ears is his own voice.

_“In the dark there is discovery, there is possibility.”_

He can smell blood, and taste the tang of it on the inside of his cheek.  A dry, caked, cracked feeling presses to his scalp as he speaks.  There is anguish there, there is need there, there is despair there, betrayal, hurt.

_“There is freedom in the dark when someone has illuminated it.”_

There is rage.

_“And who has been so close as we are right now?”_

Jim Flint wakes with a start, air burning its way down into his lungs.  There is a memory of curls, a gun, a memory that’s not a memory, a dream that’s not a dream.  Mindlessly, his hand reaches out, crawling over the cold expanse of the bed beside him.

His fingers curl, slowly, into a fist in the sheets, eyes staring unfocused out into the darkness.  His chest still heaves.  He feels like he’s swallowed the ocean, and restlessly he gets to his feet, grabbing a pack of cigarettes off the bedside table and steps barefoot onto the balcony of his apartment.

It’s the same dream, every night for weeks now, and it always feels like something is at the edge of memory, like there is a detail that he is forgetting; but dreams never stay with him long, and by the time he is standing out here on his balcony, considering, the memories are fading.

_“And who has been so close as we are right now?”_

The cigarette burns down slowly in his hand, ashes tapped off into an old glass ashtray, pounding head leaning into his palm.  He can faintly hear car horns honking down below him, faint from his 20th floor apartment, but the sound is still too loud.  The stars above him feel too bright, the moon too round, the wind too harsh.  He is exhausted, and a quick glance at his phone tells him that he’s been asleep for less than three hours.

He runs a hand slowly down his face.  The sun will be up in a few hours, and he’s considering giving up.  Maybe he’ll lay down, read for a few hours, see how he feels then.

Plan in mind, he finishes off his smoke, then ambles back inside, picking a book up off his bedside table before curling back up under the covers and flicking on the bedside light.  The warmth is welcome, and although the vast expanse of the bed feels too empty, this is quickly forgotten as he begins to turn the pages of his book.

He’s only been reading for half an hour when he starts to lose grip on the pages, eyelids drooping.  The sun, too-red in the fading haze of a forest fire, begins to rise as Jim sinks into bed, exhaustion finally pulling him back down into restless sleep.

He is woken only a few hours later by the sound of voices out in the hallway.  Scowling, Jim rolls onto his side, pulling the duvet and sheet up over his head, waiting for the talking to subside.  When it doesn’t, he gets up, pulling on a pair of jeans and a henley before padding, still barefoot, to make himself a cup of coffee,

By the time it’s brewed, things have gone quiet, so he opens his front door, and bends down to grab his paper, coffee in hand.  He hears the sound of the elevator bell, so he straightens up and closes the door, sitting at his small fold out table only for the talking to pick back up.

Fuck’s _sake_.

He opens his paper, staring at the headline as if ignoring the chatter outside will somehow make it go away.  It does not work.

Irritably, Jim looks up and gives a glare at his front door.  Really?  This is what he’s dealing with today?  His head is still pounding, and he can’t even get some peace and quiet.

Finally getting pissed off enough to do something about it, Flint puts the paper down on the table and gets to his feet, the metal feet of the chair scraping over the floor as he stands and marches over to his door.

Pulling it open, he prepares himself to kick up a fuss up over whoever is making so much damn racket at 7 in the morning.

There is a man carrying a box, holding the door of the next apartment over open with his foot.  He has an absurd amount of curly hair, carelessly piled on top of his head that seems somehow less careless when paired with dark ripped jeans, an off-white v-neck and a dusty blue zip-up hoodie with brown patches on the elbows.  He looks up at the sound of Jim’s door opening, and after a moment that seems like forever, he sets the box down and walks over with the slightest of limps, grinning brightly.

“Hey there, neighbour,” he greets.  “Johnny Silver.”

Jim’s fingers go numb and the cup of coffee slips from between them.


	2. ii.

The cup bounces off the carpeted floor of the hallway, coffee spilling through it as the mug rolls and bounces before smashing into the far wall. Cracks crawl like spider webs across the porcelain, and a hunk of paint chips off the wall.

“Woah there,” says the man—Johnny—taking a step back. The other foot lags behind for a moment before it steps back, too, like an afterthought. Jim watches numbly as coffee leaks into the already ugly carpet. “Y’all right there, mate?”  
  
His voice sounds foggy and far away, as dueling feelings of warmth and rage bubble inside of him. He feels like he’s seen the man from somewhere, but he doesn’t seem to be in the least bit as disturbed as Jim is.

His mouth opens and closes, working numbly until something finally comes out of him.  
“What?”

Curly Hair gives him a look, lips curving up into a cat-like grin, with just a glint of teeth. He’s not sure what’s so fucking funny, but he’s sure as hell not about to ask.

“I asked if you’re all right.” He speaks slowly as if Jim won’t understand him elsewise. God, he hates him already. That grin is unbearable, and the slight cant of his hips is just… Jim’s got better things to do with his time than make eyes at the straight guy next door. What’s he done to piss God off that it’s always like this?

“Fine,” he says, sounding snappier than he means to.

A regular man would flinch away from such aggression. Either that or parry with aggression of his own, but evidently Flint’s new neighbor has no survival instinct nor any sense, because he laughs and then offers his hand to shake.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says, tone ever amiable.

“Jim,” says Jim, taking the hand in his own to give a firm albeit brief shake. “Flint. Not usually this much of a morning person, are ya? I was sleeping.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep it down,” Curly Hair offers without further fuss. “Say 10 o’clock before I start throwing the wild parties?”

Jim narrows his eyes. It is a compromise and an insult in the same breath, so he would be a fool to decline, but he can’t help but want to. It’s the principle of the matter. Other people live here, and here’s this man, this Johnny whats-his-face making a racket early in the morning as if everyone lives 9 to 5, making it out like it’s a joke for anyone to sleep past whatever ungodly hour he usually wakes up at.

“10 o’clock,” he agrees, shoving his hand into his pocket.

He’s just about to end the conversation by going back into his apartment when the elevator dings and an absolute tree of a man steps out. Jim is by no means a short man, and he doesn’t make such statements lightly. He’s a freckled fella, all arms, conventionally handsome with sandy blonde hair and blue, blue eyes like a tropical island sky or a Hawaii beachside; or like the way a wave looks when it breaks.  
  
“John, are you going to come help me with the rest of these boxes, or are you just going to sit up here on your a—Jesus!” says Blue Eyes as he steps in a pool of hot coffee, the carpet deep enough that some can leak into his low sandals. “What the fuck?”  
  
It’s almost sounds funny coming out of a mouth that pretty on a face that young.  
  
“Just John Silver, I’m afraid,” Curly Hair quips. “The coffee, though, that is a gift from my new neighbour.”  
  
“Well I’ll thank ‘em to clean it up.” Blue Eyes walks right past him, meeting his eyes only briefly before heading on through the front door of the next place over.  
  
God, he hates both of them.  
  
“Maybe if you weren’t so loud I wouldn’t be up this early,” Jim says under his breath as he walks inside to fetch a tea towel and a broom. He’s pretty sure Curly Hair hears, judging by his laugh as he grabs the box he set down earlier and heads inside after his friend, but he doesn’t say anything about it at least.  
  
He deals with the broken mug first, sweeping it into a dustpan before lowering himself to the floor to dab up what he can of the coffee. He heads back for another tea towel as well as some vinegar (there isn’t a fresh stain in England vinegar can’t fix) and then meticulously works out as much of the stain as he can see.  
  
By the time he’s done, the two men who caused him so much trouble in the first place have finished traveling back and forth with boxes.  
  
He figures that’s the end of it. They’ll make polite eye contact in the hallway, and otherwise ignore each other’s existence.

Taking the silence as his cue to crawl back into bed, Jim lays down on top of the covers and lets himself drift into restless dreams filled with eyes like the ocean, curls, the roaring sea, roaring voices, the sound of wood on wood--

He jerks awake, bleary-eyed as the sound of someone knocking gets louder. His heart, for some inexplicable reason, is pounding in his chest like it’s going to explode. Curling a hand in his shirt, he drags himself reluctantly to his feet and then opens the front door.

He has a moment of double vision, looking at Curly Hair who is looking at him who is looking at--

“John.”

“Oh, god,” says John. “Johnny, please. Or Silver if you must. Just not John.”

There is a moment where James feels unrooted and uneven without the rocking sea beneath him, and then it’s gone, blinked away like dust. He really needs to start sleeping better. Tough with the dreams, but maybe if he just went to a shrink he could get some sleeping pills

“Right,” Jim answers without feeling before remembering that he hates this guy. “What do you want?”

“Wi-fi.”

“... What?” This is turning into a habit. He wishes Curly Hair would just speak in full sentences instead of in half code like he should somehow understand what he’s trying to communicate.

“I need to use your internet.” He holds up a slim laptop now, a patient expression on his face. “You do have internet, don’t you?”

“Of course I have,” Jim snaps irritably before stepping out of the way to let Curly Hair inside. “Password’s on the router, and don’t be loud about it.”

“You’re going to leave me here?” Curly Hair asks, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Well, what’re you gonna do? Move all of my furniture one inch to the left?”

That gets a laugh out of the guy, not that that seems terribly difficult.

“First of all, that’s pure evil. Second of all, I could surely rob you or something.”

Rolling his eyes, Jim gives him a look. He’s half-tempted to kick him out on his ass out of spite.

“Well are you going to?”

There is a too-long moment where they stand staring at each other. Jim can smell the beach, feel the breeze nipping at him. Everything smells like salt and dew and dirt. His hands, there is dried blood on the side of his head.

He reaches up, pressing his hand to the side of his face. It comes away clean, and his hand is clean and…

Blankly, he stares down at his palm.

“...mes? James? Anybody home?”

Jim looks up.

“What?”

“I said I’d only steal your right shoes.”

Jim has the distinct feeling like he’s not in on the joke.

“Right,” he says simply, then he gives Silver a final, withering scowl before heading back to bed, slamming the door pointedly behind him.


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on the bus this morning, so please feel free to point out typos.

There is an open window, and he can hear the crashing waves against the side of the boat.  Faintly there is the sound of gulls, and his seat rocks beneath him in slow, rolling motion that feel as natural as the breaths in his lungs.  He is looking at his hands, dirty with fingers laced.  His head comes up.  He’s looking at a mess of dark curls, a sheet pulled thinly up over him.  His teeth sink into his bottom lip.  Slowly, the body shifts, and he already knows who it is, knows what this means, can feel the joy surging.  He reaches out his hand to put it on Silver’s shoulder and then he wakes up, hand landing hollowly on an empty expanse beside him.

The smell of the sea is replaced by the heady scent of coffee.  With heavy dread suddenly in his gut, he gets up and walks into the kitchen.  Silver is facing away from him.  For a moment his back is someone else’s, and Jim aches in a way he can’t place, but he must look like hell because when Johnny turns around he speaks in a surprisingly quiet voice.

“Hey,” he says and then he holds out a mug of coffee.

Jim takes it wordlessly and then sits down at the table.  He inhales the smell slowly and then swallows down a mouthful.  It tastes painfully familiar and he has to put it down and bites back the hurting feeling inside of him like an open wound.

“I thought you might be hungry so I raided the cupboards,” Johnny says as he puts a stack of toast and a warm plateful of sausages.  “Eggs will be up in 5 minutes.”

Jim slathers some marmalade onto the bread with a paring knife—all of his butter knives are in the wash; he’ll get to it eventually—biting into it, and then takes another slow drink of the coffee, the taste of oranges and coffee mingling in his mouth.  There is a long silence in which Jim can only hear the eggs sizzling and Johnny’s uneven foot falls.

The foot falls come closer and Johnny sets two fried eggs down in front of him.  Jim pushes some sausages onto the plate and then piles toast precariously on the edge, all without looking up.

“Pretending I don’t exist, are we?”

He’s not, but it’s yet another jab at his personality, and frankly, it kind of pisses him off.

“Give me reason not to.”

“Well, I made you lunch.”

Sourly, Jim levels him with a look.

“You made  _ yourself  _ lunch.” He jabs his knife pointedly in the direction of Johnny’s plateful.  “I just so happen to be here.”

The look on Johnny’s face could almost be categorized as gleeful.

“Guilty as charged,” he says, tossing his hands up in a motion of surrender.

_ Ugh. _

Jim turns his attention back to his food and runs his knife through the yolk, which spills out across the plate in a slow, lazy rhythm like a pounding heart.  It’s the colour of sunset, and for a moment, Jim is struck by the image of reddening sunlight over white sheets and dark curls.

The knife scrapes loudly over the plate and it’s not until he hears a shout of “Jesus!” and sees the red mingling into the yellow that he realizes he’s managed to slice the skin of his forefinger.  Blood spills free, running onto the plate, going efficiently around the still-damp rim before slipping into the eggs.  Numbly, he realizes Johnny must have washed the plates.

“Fuck’s sake,” he says.

“I’ll say,” Johnny answers with feeling, already on his feet.  He shoves a tea towel into Jim’s hand, then wraps it around his finger when he does nothing.  “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Under the sink,” says Jim, only just now moving his hand to keep the tea towel in place.

“Well, of course.” Seriously.  What is this joke that Jim’s not in on?  It’s like a sum he can’t quite manage or a second cousin whose name he can’t quite recall.

Johnny bends down anyway and grabs the first aid kit out from under the sink, then sets the kit down on the table, opening it up.

“Let me take a look,” he says, then takes Jim’s hand and pulls the tea towel away.  The bleeding seems to have slowed, more sluggish and less heavy, and Johnny makes an approving sound in the back of his throat, then gets up and wets the tea towel.  He sits back down and takes a hold of Jim’s hand again, cupping it in his own, palm up.  He wipes blood off of Jim’s finger, then carefully dabs away the blood surrounding the cut itself, brow furrowed in concentration.

Jim has nothing to do but watch.  The heat of Johnny’s hand under his feels warm, and Jim is just now noticing the callouses.  The skin of his palm is rough, an anti-thesis to the slightly feminine image he presents himself with.

He’s got his hair pulled back, an effortless bun on the back of his head, some curls slowly coming free.  He’s cultivating a carefully trimmed mustache with stubble on his chin and traveling along his jawline and just slightly down his neck, which has what seems to be a locket hanging off of it, though it is partially tucked away under his button-up, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows.  There is a floral design on the thin fabric, small blue flowers budding on the ivory fabric, the shadow of chest hair just visible if you squint.

Jim feels too warm all of a sudden, but he can’t pull away now when he’s been still for so long, and he’s not sure he could bring himself to, anyway.  Johnny is humming under his breath as he wraps a bandage around the now clean cut.  It stings vaguely, and Jim spots a discarded alcohol swab.  He hums another few bars and Jim can feel another maddening pang of familiarity.

“What is that?”

Johnny looks up.  “Hm?”

“That song you’re humming.”

“Oh.  Just something we used to sing in the army.” Johnny’s head goes back down as he presumably puts the finishing touches on the bandaid.

_ What? _ Jim thinks, but he at least has the decency not to say it out loud.  He supposes it wouldn’t be completely unthinkable, but if he’s honest with himself, Johnny’s so cheerful he’d just assumed he’d never had a hard day in his life.

“Billy and I—that’s the fella who was helping me move the other day, thanks for asking—served together.  Good fella.  Bad habit of glaring at strangers.”

“Yeah.  It’ll do that.”

The pause is almost imperceptible, but Johnny’s fingers slow for the barest of moments, and his hand squeezes around Jim’s briefly before he pulls away and starts putting away the leftover first aid supplies.  The back of Jim’s hand still feels warm, and he wipes it idly on the back of his pants.

“Well,” he says, staring at his plate, which has a thin pool of dried blood on it.  “So much for lunch.”

“Worry not, Johnny Silver and his love of modern technology will save the day,” says Johnny, and then he pulls out his phone and taps away animatedly while Jim decides to dispose of their leftovers.

“There’s a café two blocks away with a 5-star Yelp rating except this one guy who’s mad about the rainbow flag in the window.”

That’s Johnny’s solution?  Going outside?

“Absolutely not.” He scrapes the discarded eggs into the trash.

“I’ll pay.”

_ Ugh _ .

“Fine.”


	4. iv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a pretty big goof mixing up Johnny and Thomas at one point, but I've fixed it. Sorry!

_Apollo’s Coffee_ brags the lettering above the door.  There’s an abstract sun painted on the window in golden yellow, a half circle in the top centre, widening beams of light coming off of it.  There is a rainbow flag hung beneath one of the beams.  There is also a list of ‘Gay Greek Gods’ taped in one of the corner of the window.  One of the edges is frayed and the paper is yellowed, but the bold, black print is still completely visible.

Man, the guy who left that 1-star Yelp rating can’t be happy about that.

Jim steps in and is instantly overwhelmed by the smells of spices and coffee.  It’s a small shop with tables shoved in haphazardly, an aisle of about 2 feet wide cleared in front of the counter.  There are a few people milling around, and two people working behind the counter.  The taller of the two has short, dyed forest green hair, dark thick eyebrows, and enough piercings on each ear that going through airport security must be a nightmare.  There’s tattoos going up one arm, disappearing under a black t-shirt that has the sun logo on the back of it.  He’s also wearing a name tag which says ‘Apollo’ in blocky sharpie and he walks with a cane in one hand, leaning into it with each step.

Oh.  So it’s a guy.  Unexpected.

The other one is slimmer, shorter, with a comparably gentle-looking face and gentle-looking expression.  He has freckles on his cheekbones and dusted up his arms.  He’s wearing the same black t-shirt along with a pair of black trousers that have the English flag painted down one side.  They’re horrible.  And tight.  Very tight.  His hair, dark brown, is spilling over one shoulder, and Jim watches him push it out of his eyes as he finishes up a cup of coffee.

Tugging at the collar of his t-shirt, Jim steps up to the counter.  The guy in tight pants notices him and walks over.  The name tag says ‘Thomas.’ It’s written out in loose cursive, barely legible, and it takes Jim a moment to process what it says.  The barista waits patiently for him to look up.

“Welcome to Apollo’s Coffee, handsome. What can I get started for you?” Thomas leans into the counter and Jim’ll swear on his mother’s grave his heart doesn’t skip a beat when those beautiful blue eyes flick over him in a quick, lazy once over.  He does adjust his shirt just a bit, though, makes sure it’s hanging off him in a flattering way, and the twitch of the corner of Thomas’ mouth says he notices.

Shit.

“Uh, just…” Jim squints at the menu which is full of incomprehensible gibberish and names which are presumably meant to be coffee puns.  “Coffee and a ham sandwich.”

“Black, medium roast?” Thomas says, already grabbing a mug.

“Yeah.”

“You got it.” And then he fucking winks.

Jim busies himself with pulling money out of hic wallet instead of thinking about his eyes and his bad handwriting, thumb slipping clumsily over the bills in his hand.

“What happened to your finger?” Thomas asks upon his return, setting a mug filled with hot brew down on the counter.  Jim holds out the appropriate bills.

“Knicked myself cutting an egg,” Jim explains vaguely, stepping to the side to let the next customer order, but Thomas moves to the side as well, and Apollo hobbles over to take the next person, which is Johnny of course.  Jim is vaguely aware of him ordering soup and a muffin.

“Ouch.  Not too bad, I hope,” Thomas offers in a sympathetic tone.

“Nah,” Jim says immediately, both because he doesn’t want Thomas to be concerned, but also for the sake of his ego.  “A quick plaster and it’s all better.”

“That’s good.  It’d be a shame for something bad to happen to someone so cute.”

Jim can feel heat crawling up his face, but he is saved from the indignity of having no reply by a beeping sound from somewhere behind the counter.  Thomas turns away to go fetch whatever it is.

Johnny’s uneven foot falls come closer and then his hand lands on the small of Jim’s back.

“He’s cute,” Johnny remarks, speaking almost directly in Jim’s ear.  His thumb is going in slow circles, overly familiar.

Jim grunts non-committedly, and Johnny laughs right in his ear.

“I saw you looking.  And so did he.  You may as well go for it.”

The sound that comes out Jim could be described as a growl.

“Well, if you’re not going for it, I am.”

Wait, what?

Thomas walks back over and sets down a plate with Jim’s sandwich.  Jim opens his mouth, but Johnny leans right over his sandwich with a smile on his face.

“Johnny Silver,” he says in a voice that Jim can only describe as _the_ single most aggravating thing he has ever heard in his life.  It’s low and warm with just the edge of a crackle.  He is being blatantly flirtatious, and it is suddenly obvious where it wasn’t before that Johnny is attracted to Thomas, and evidently he wants him to know that.

“This is Jim,” he adds, hand still on Jim’s back.  “So sorry for his mood.  I have no solid evidence, but my running theory is that his blood is about 50% coffee, and if he doesn’t have enough of it in his system, he just can’t function like us regular people.”

Jim would protest such absurd slander, but Johnny is _completely_ ignoring him other than the damn thumb, which is still going in slow circles, and plowing on.

“Look, I’ve just moved, and as great a mate as Jim is, I _really_ need to branch out.  Jim has a pretty serious relationship with his bed, and I’m just not sure I can get between them.  So I was just hoping you might want to go grab drinks some night.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, a look of surprise on his face.  “Are you two—?” he motions between Johnny and Jim.

“Alas,” Johnny says, putting his hand dramatically to his chest.  “I don’t think I’m his type.  He prefers people who are...”

“Less fucking annoying.”

“Yes.  There we are.  Thank you, Jim.”

“Tell you what, mate,” Thomas says, grabbing a business card off the counter and pulling a pen out of his pocket.  “I’ll give you my number and you give me a ring, all right?”

“All right,” Johnny agrees, taking the card once it’s offered to him before finally paying Jim mind.  “Come on, Jim.  Let’s pick our jaws up off the floor and go eat.”

Reluctantly, Jim grabs his sandwich and his coffee and lets himself be led away, stealing one last glance at the cheerful Thomas over his shoulder.


	5. v.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Jim's grumpy disposition makes this unclear, let me say quite seriously that this is 100% consensual. That said, there is some alcohol use in this chapter, so if that and vaguely undernegotiated consent could be a trigger for you, this is me warning you. Relevant parties do check in, but it could definitely be seen as undernegotiated because, again, of Jim. Ok. Enjoy!!

"Jim." Jim is peacefully at home, reading a book in the early evening when Johnny starts to knock on his door. "Jim. I know you're home." Jim ignores him and turns the page. He can hear the patter of autumn rain against his windows which are all large with Juliet balconies except for the sliding door of the balcony proper. "Jim, it's an emergency."  
  
Reluctantly, Jim gets to his feet and opens the door, peering at Johnny suspiciously.  
  
"What?" he grouses.  
  
"Do you have any beer?"  
  
"That's not an emergency," Jim says, now genuinely annoyed.  
  
"Hi!" says Thomas, appearing from behind Johnny.  
  
_Jesus Almighty_ , thinks Jim because Thomas is soaked from head to toe with rain. His hair is plastered to his face and neck. His jeans are dark and clinging to his thighs, and his shirt is... White. It's white.  
  
Logically, Jim knows Thomas looks undignified and ridiculous, like a very well-tempered, very wet cat. The parts of him which aren't logic have a different opinion on the matter. Johnny is looking at him like he's Santa Claus and he's brought Christmas early.  
  
"Um," says Jim.  
  
"All right, mate. You drive a hard bargain," Johnny says, à propos of absolutely nothing. "If you've got drinks, you're welcome to come back to mine and join us."  
  
Jim does have drinks. He has a dozen bottles of beer sitting in his fridge, an expensive dark ale he likes to drink after stressful days of work. Blankly, he stares at the gleeful expression on Johnny's face. This is a very stupid thing to do. He's going to spend the entire night pretending he's not staring at Thomas, and then feeling childish and silly because he's staring at Thomas.  
  
He grunts and then turns around, leaving the door open.  
  
"That's Jim speak for yes," he can hear Johnny saying. "If he'd slammed the door in our faces, that would be a no."  
  
Jim pulls open the fridge, rooting through it, but he can still hear Thomas' good-natured "I see," from the door.  
  
He grabs the cardboard pack off the bottom shelf then toes on his shoes and closes and locks his apartment door behind him.  
  
“We’ve got Chinese food on the way,” Johnny offers as they walk down the hall back to his apartment. He’s left the door just slightly ajar, and he pulls off his shoes, leaning awkwardly and heavily into the wall, before grabbing a beer out of the case.  
  
The apartment is sparsely furnished. Jim had somehow expected it to be overflowing with knick knacks, but the only sign of life is the five pairs of shoes by the door, a scarf hanging over the back of a chair, a blanket on the back of the large, red sofa, and slim laptop sitting on the coffee table.  
  
Johnny grabs one of the pillows off the sofa and then sits himself on the floor before motioning to the sofa.  
  
“Gentlemen.”  
  
Jim holds out a beer to Thomas, who takes it with a quick thank you before ambling to the sofa and taking a seat. Uncomfortable, Jim takes a seat beside him, putting a generous 6 inches between them. He pops the top off the beer with his keys and then takes a slow drink. Johnny smashes his on the coffee table until the lid pops off and Thomas, with an awkward laugh, holds his out to Jim.  
  
“Could you…?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says shortly, then leans over and shoves his keys up under the lid of the bottle, fingers brushing Thomas’ as he holds the neck of the bottle. He keeps his eyes rigidly in place even as Thomas’ thumb brushes over his palm, and then pulls away as the lid comes away.  
  
Johnny is leaned back on the cushion, legs crossed over each other as he takes a slow, long drink, hair spilling over his back. He raises his eyebrows suggestively at Jim who answers with a scowl.  
  
Thomas takes a slow drink, watching the pair of them in silence. Jim also remains silent, having nothing to contribute to the conversation, nor really wanting to. He’s very busy not stealing glances at Thomas who is still gloriously damp, though he’s dragged the blanket off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders.  
  
“So, Johnny,” Thomas says at last, gaze settling on him. “What do you do for a living?”  
  
“Oh,” Johnny says, and runs a hand through his hair before answering, tossing the mane of curls back. “Just a desk job. Book appointments, fill out forms, take calls, fax stuff. That kind of thing.”  
  
Jim scoffs in realization.  
  
“You’re a secretary.”  
  
Johnny shoots him a look.  
  
“A personal assistant; and yes, I am.”  
  
“Well, you know, _someone’s_ gotta bring those annoying bigwigs their coffee,” Thomas interrupts smoothly.  
  
“Plus they pay for my metro pass,” Johnny adds with a wide grin at Thomas.  
  
Sourly, Jim sips at his beer. He’s not made for social situations, especially not ones where he’s expected to behave himself. Johnny and Thomas continue on, conversing and complaining about their respective jobs until finally Thomas snaps his fingers.  
  
“What about you, Jim? What do you do?”  
  
Oh, god. Small talk.  
  
“Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him him leave his flat for work,” Johnny remarks, head tilting to the side. “And I’ve been spying,” he adds with a mischievous grin.  
  
Jim absolutely can not stand him, and yet in the past week he has found himself repeatedly thrust into situations where he spends extended periods of time with him; and when it’s not that, then it’s the dreams and the unfamiliar feeling of steady ground beneath his feet.  
  
“I’m a writer,” he says, almost too quietly to be heard, but Johnny’s eyes light up and his posture straightens.  
  
“Like… a fiction writer?”  
  
“I…” Jim breathes out through his nose, cheeks going pink with embarrassment. “Yes. Historical fiction.”  
  
The only way to describe the sound that comes out of Johnny is childish delight. He slaps one hand on his thigh, beer still held steady in the other. Jim huffs out a breath and pushes his thumb through the sweat on the glass of his beer.  
  
“Okay. Hang on,” Johnny says. He uncrosses his legs, pulling himself to his feet with a hand curled around the corner of the coffee table. He hobbles into another room, leaving the door open less than an inch and returns within 30 seconds with a novel in his hands. Jim can see part of the cover from where he’s sitting, and he tries to keep from making a face. Johnny drops the book in his lap: _In the Darkness_ by James McGraw.  
  
Fuck.  
  
“…” says Jim.

There is a long, awkward silence in which Johnny looks at him expectantly.

“Okay, well instead of torturing me with random works of historical fiction, pass me another beer.”

Jim holds out his empty bottle. It’s a blunt instrument, doing very little in the way of social niceties or in the way of hiding his intentions, but it’ll have to do.

Having enough sense to recognize a subject change when he hears one, Johnny tucks the book under the coffee table and then grabs another beer and smashes it open on the table before handing it over.

Jim takes a slow, long drink, trying to ignore the way they are both staring at him.

“So, personal assistant.” Thomas looks back over at Johnny, smoothly changing the subject for what feels like the millionth time. “That’s gotta be a pretty shit job.”

“Ugh,” Johnny says instantly, leaping on the chance to complain about his job. “The absolute worst. I had never met a grown man who looked about ready to throw a temper tantrum over coffee until I started working at this place, and now all these lawyers look that way unless I get the coffee from the _right_ place.”

Thomas laughs.

“Now grown men whining over coffee is something with which I am intimately familiar.”

“Seriously. Who _raised_ them? They’re snobby as hell. Half of them don’t even know my name. It’s like… You see me every day. The least you could do is try to remember it’s Johnny and not Jesse.”

Jim narrows his eyes, baffled by what is occurring in front of him right now.

“If you hate your job so much, just get a new one.”

Johnny physically rolls his eyes. That’s got to be the first time Jim’s seen him even remotely displeased all week.

“Ah, yes,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “From the magical job fountain.”

“Well, you don’t have to say it like that.”

“We can’t all be talented authors who sit at home looking contemplatively grumpy and disheveled, Jim.”

“You have no proof that I’m talented.”

“My proof is that you clearly have enough money to sit around all day writing.”

“...”

“Exactly.”

Johnny grabs himself another beer, and the three of them fall into silence again other than the sound of Johnny swallowing down a mouthful of beer. Jim digs his thumbnail under the label of his bottle, peeling it away absently.

“Are you two sure you’re not dating?” Thomas asks after a couple of seconds of silence.

“Yes,” says Jim immediately.

“Alas,” Johnny chimes in with a theatrical little swoon.

“Shame. I’d pay to see that,” Thomas says, and then takes a sip of his beer as if he hasn’t just implied he would pay actual money to watch the two of them… something.

“How much?” Johnny asks.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Jim almost snarls.

Apparently Thomas is just drunk enough to consider the question seriously.

“20 pounds for a kiss. A proper one, of course.”

“Sure,” says Johnny.

“No,” says Jim, trying to sound serious.

“Come on. We’ll split it 50/50.”

“ _No_.”

Johnny narrows his eyes at him.

“40/60.”

Is he drunk enough for this? Jim looks down at his beer, he looks back at Johnny with his pretty hair and his tan skin. He glances at Thomas, who is watching the two of them with rapt attention.

“25 pounds,” he says, pointing a finger at Thomas.

“Deal.”

Fuck. He is actually doing this. Shrugging his shoulders, he reaches out an arm to help Johnny to his feet. Johnny grabs a hold and hauls himself up, then drops heavily down onto the sofa, squeezing between Thomas and Jim, half in Jim’s lap.

Jim immediately wants to move away, look away, take back his personal space, but he forces himself to stay put, breathing out through his nose. Johnny takes one look at him and then puts a hand on the small of his back.

“You sure you want those 15 pounds, mate?” he asks. He’s close enough that Jim can feel his breath. He can smell the beer, and when Johnny pushes his hair back, a couple of the tips of the curly strands brush against his cheek.

“It’s just a kiss.” Jim’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Johnny or himself.

“Hmm,” Johnny replies non-committedly. His fingers are moving in a lazy pattern along his spine, slipping over the vertebrae. He shifts closer, the smell of beer getting heavier. Jim is acutely aware of Thomas watching the two of them with wide-eyed wonder. The hand on Jim’s back slips slowly around until Johnny’s arm is wrapped around him, pulling him in closer. It’s comically intimate, chest to chest, faces inches from each other. Johnny is ridiculously relaxed, which just makes Jim even more hyperaware of how tense he himself is.

Maybe it's just the teasing, the _tension_ , but the first touch of Johnny's lips is electric. He tilts his head into it, eyes going halfway closed. Johnny kisses lazy, slow. It's deep and just wet enough to send a hot thrill down Jim's spine, but it's not at all what he wants.

Irritated, even in this moment, Jim bites down on Johnny's bottom lip, sharply enough to hurt, but Johnny just chuckles with delight against his mouth. The arm not around him comes up, running through the short hairs at the base of his neck, and Jim frames a broad hand around one of Johnny's soft hips and gives a squeeze.

That gets a reaction, a sharp inhale of breath, and when Johnny kisses him again it's a little bit harder. Jim makes a low, satisfied sound, and then the wood of the sofa creaks. He becomes aware all at once of every point of contact, and then aware of where they are, _who_ is there.

Like an elastic band, Jim snaps back into place, pulling away from every touch point, hands returning to his sides, eyes opening, and open mouth snapping shut into a scowl.

"Damn," Thomas says from where he's sitting on the sofa, voice quiet but thick with something that sounds suspiciously like want.

Jim nudges Johnny awkwardly out of his personal space, then edges closer to the arm of the sofa. He can feel his cheeks going red as he holds out a hand to Thomas expectantly.

Dutifully, Thomas pulls the appropriate cash from his wallet and hands it over, then nudges Johnny and passes him a tenner. Johnny, who always has his eyes on Thomas when the other man is around, is looking right at Jim. It's too much. The stare is intense, none of the usual bouncing merriment in sight.

Abruptly, Jim gets to his feet, storming out and leaving what's left of the beer behind.


	6. vi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i am too tired to be posting this but oh well hopefully it makes sense.

There is no bird song, no call of whales or dolphins this late at night. There is nothing but the creaks of wood, the rattle of metal, the crash of the waves, and the sound of the sheets and his bed mate's breath.

James feels too warm, everywhere his body touches the bed drenched in sweat. A sweat slick hand trails down the side of his body, squeezing at the skin of his round stomach, the hard line of his hip before sliding down to grab a meaty thigh, thick with muscle and fat.

It's too hot. It's the middle of summer, and he groans in protest of the heat. A hum answers him against his neck and he gropes blindly in the dark. He had been asleep. He can remember being asleep. He'd nearly stabbed him before recognizing the familiar smell of soap and aftershave paired with the scent of ocean and cooked meat. The dagger Flint keeps under his pillow is safely in a drawer now, away from their naked bodies.

"Go back to sleep," John says into his scruff. Flint groans in tired stubbornness and John laughs.

"Roll over, then."

The bed creaks a little as James rolls over onto his belly.  Silver shifts, hips settling on top of him, and his fingers slip up James’ chilled back as he leans down, dotting slow kisses along his freckled shoulders before he licks a lazy line partway down his captain’s spine, stopping at about the ends of his shoulderblades.  James shifts a little, Silver’s hair brushing over his skin.  He continues onwards after dallying just long enough to make the beginnings of impatience bloom in James’ chest.  He’d never show it, but Silver knows just how long to tease to get James feeling a little aggravated and almost eager for more.

John’s mouth continues downwards, teeth brushing over the skin at the swell of his ass before being followed by more panting, open-mouthed kisses.

“God, this ass,” Silver says against his skin, using a thumb to pull his ass cheeks just far enough apart for his tongue to tease along Flint’s hole.  Flint opens his mouth to reply, eyes fluttering open, only to find himself alone, lying on his stomach.  For a long, horrible moment, he has no idea where he is.  He stares at the large windows, the sunshine coming in through the bottoms of the curtains.  He can feel heat in his face, feel how absurdly hard he is.

He’s alone.  He’s alone… because…

Blankly, he continues to stare at the curtains.  He doesn’t have an answer.

Getting to his feet, he walks out of the room, looking around slowly.  Everything feels wrong.  A honking car startles him out of it.

Sudden terror plunges his gut.  He has to resist the urge to vomit.  Instead, he walks himself into his kitchen and turns on the coffee maker, then takes a shower, standing for too long under the water.  By the time he’s clean and dressed, the coffee is just above lukewarm, but he still fills a cupful, then another and shoves them both in the microwave before walking down the hall to pound on Johnny Silver’s door.

The door opens and a definitely hungover Silver gives him what would normally be a blinding smile if he didn’t look like the ass side of a sewer rat.

“Jim!  What a delightful surprise,” he begins, tone salacious before he takes in the look on Jim’s face.  His tilting, overly sexual body language shifts and he reaches out, hand going to the base of Jim’s spine like it belongs there.  “Is everything all right?”

It takes Jim holding out one of the cups of coffee to register that his hands are shaking.

“You said you were in the army,” he says, feeling far away from his own voice.

“Uhh, yes.  I did mention that in passing,” Johnny agrees, taking both cups of coffee and walking inside with an expectant look on his face.  Jim follows a little reluctantly, though he supposes this isn’t the sort of conversation you have in a bloke’s front doorway.

“Do you have that, um,” he stumbles, words failing him.  He doesn’t have the vocabulary to express what he means, but as if they’re of one mind, Johnny looks at him as he takes a seat at his kitchen table (small, made of thin metal rods and a hard plastic top) and fills in the blank.

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?  Yes.”

All right.  Jim had expected to have to squeeze that particular tidbit out of him, but the blunt honesty is welcome.

“Right.  Yeah.  That.”  Jim takes a long sip of his coffee.  “Do you ever-- What I mean is, have you… forgotten where you are, ever?”

Johnny reaches out, putting one hand over his own.  He’s shaking again.  Johnny’s hand is warm, achingly familiar.  He squeezes and ducks his head a little to try and look Jim in the eyes.

“Are you asking about hallucinations?”

Hallucinations?  Dreams?  Fugue?  He chokes back that sick feeling.  He hates the lack of control, hates the fact that his body sometimes feels like it’s not his own, or like he doesn’t belong here, or like he is so lonely he aches.

“Yes,” he says.

Johnny’s head dips down and he presses a kiss to Jim’s knuckles.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice whisper soft.  His expression as he looks up is pained.  “It’s okay, Jim.”  Using his other hand, he cups Jim’s between both of his own, dusting more kisses to his skin.  He holds on until Jim’s hands stop shaking.

“What about places you’ve never been?” he asks at last.

There is a long silence, then.  Jim can hear a ticking clock from somewhere in the apartment, the low buzzing rumble of the fridge.  Johnny plays with his fingers, hair obscuring his expression.

“Sometimes,” he says finally.  “There’s this ship…” He trails off.

“Yeah,” answers Jim.

Eventually, he slips his hand away, reaching for his coffee as an excuse despite the fact he has an entire other free hand.  He withdraws into his seat, sipping it in silence.  Johnny watches him for a few moments before picking up the other cup.

“Ugh.  Cold,” he complains and then pulls himself to his feet, walking over to the microwave.  He puts his cup of coffee into the microwave, and then the fucking crutch finally registers in Jim’s brain.

He blinks rapidly.  How did he  _ miss  _ that?

“What the fuck did you get up to last night?” he snarls, feeling… defensive?  No.   _ Protective _ .  God.  Why him?

“Hm?” says Johnny, completely oblivious.  Then he looks down.  “Oh, this.  The ol’ leg’s just giving me a bit of trouble is all.”

He’s wearing that fucking grin again.  Jim simultaneously wants to be let in on the fucking joke and never wants to know.

“Right,” he says, sourly, then takes another sip of his coffee.  Ugh.  Cold.

He holds the cup out toward Johnny, who hums in understanding and shoves it into the microwave.

Twice-microwaved coffee is horrible, but they both choke it down.  Flint stands, readying to leave when Johnny grabs him by the arm.

“Why don’t you come for a walk with me ‘n Billy?  By which I mean I walk and he jogs circles around me.  It’ll only be an hour, and I’d feel better.”

Part of Jim wants to bite, wants to tell him he doesn’t care how he feels, but another part of him, the part with a _conscience_ , reminds him that Johnny literally opened up about having hallucinations to make a man he barely knows feel better. The least he can do is go on a fucking stroll with the guy.

“Let me get my phone,” he says.  “And keys.”

“Sure.  Meet you in the lobby?”

“Yeah.”


	7. vii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains some internalized ableist bullcrap, so might wanna skim for a bit in the middle if that's gonna upsetti your spaghetti.

Billy gives him the stink eye.  Jim’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be intimidating, and sure the guy towers over him and has arms as big as his head, but he’s also dressed in tight pants and an even tighter shirt that stretches over his pectorals and outlines his abs.  It kind of ruins the effect, to be honest.

“Bones, mate, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought along the neighbour,” Johnny says, either oblivious or playing at it with spectacular ease.  He clearly minds, but he doesn’t say as much, just grunts and starts up a leisurely jog, easily outpacing the still crutch-ridden Johnny, as well as Jim, who is keeping step with him.

The park has a steady stream of noises: chirping birds, distant car horns, barking dogs and giggling children.  Jim can hear the pattering water of a fountain and the gentle gurgle of a stream as he walks along the paved path ahead of them.  Johnny’s steps sound even more uneven than usual, and he leans heavily into the crutch with each step.  He’s hardly in walking condition in Jim’s opinion, but it’s not his place to say anything, so he keeps quiet, slowing even more when Johnny’s breathing starts to sound a bit ragged.

It’s not until Billy jogs past them for the first time that Johnny says anything.

"Have you considered therapy?"

Johnny isn't substantially younger him. There's hardly a generation gap between them, more like 5 years, 10 if he's being generous; yet he talks about therapy easily with none of the shame that Jim carries around in his chest. Even so, he doesn't look Jim in the eye when he says it, staring straight ahead at the canopy of trees they're passing under.

"Considered it," Jim says and hopes that that'll be the end of the conversation.

"And?"

Ugh.

"And I'm not dangerous, I have no work schedule to be interrupted, and I've always been irritable. It's hardly ruining my life."

Now Johnny  _ is _ looking at him.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Johnny stops walking for a moment, and Jim automatically slows to a halt beside him.  Johnny is frowning, brows drawn together, head slightly cocked, arms crossed, in a way that feels like deja vu.

“You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you seem to zone out at least a couple of times a day.  You’re jumpy, defensive, and self-deprecating.  And if you  _ are  _ sleeping then it’s all you do.  That’s not healthy, and as your friend, I am worried about you.”

“My friend,” Jim echoes.

“Is that so strange?”

_ Yes _ , Jim thinks, but he doesn’t say as much, just looks at Johnny in complete silence.  They stand there for what seems like an interminable amount of time, and then Johnny sighs and goes back to walking.  Jim falls into step, and soon after Billy runs past them again.

“Are you sure he’s human?” Jim asks, a disbelieving scowl colouring his features.

“The stars point to yes,” Johnny answers flippantly.

He walks for a little longer then sits down on a bench with a groan.  Jim hesitates for a moment, then takes a seat beside him.  Johnny breathes out through his nose, then tilts his head back and tosses an arm around Jim, hand landing just barely on his farther shoulder.

“So are we just not going to talk about the other night?”

Jim goes tense.  He’s sure Johnny can feel it, but he makes no indication that he’s noticed, head tilted to the sky, throat bared, hair tumbling down his back.

“What’s there to talk about?”

There is another long silence where all Jim can hear is Johnny’s breathing--heavy, he’s been pushing himself; his fingertips feel cold--and the soft chirping of the birds sitting in the trees and bushes around them.

“You felt it,” says Johnny.  It’s not a question; it’s a statement, self-assured and frank.  He closes his eyes and then says it again, fingers curling in the fabric of Jim’s shirt.  “You felt it, Jim.”

He can still remember the feeling of Johnny’s mouth pressed against his, the comfort of an arm around him, pulling him in, the taste of booze and his tongue.  Jim sucks on his teeth, gritting them, staring out into the trees.  Johnny’s hand curls tighter in his shirt.  He leans in, breath tickling over Jim’s ear.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it.”

A frisson of heat crawls down Jim’s spine.  He is, much to his dismay and annoyance, tempted to let Johnny haul him in closer here and now.  Instead he stays stock still, wordless and staring harder out into the trees.  It might not be the exact response that Johnny was hoping for, but he seems reasonably satisfied, so he leans away and goes back to breathing.  They sit there until Billy reappears.

He stops in front of them, and, completely ignoring Jim’s existence, says to Johnny “Done?”

Johnny nods.

Billy grunts and grabs a water bottle off his hip to take long, deep drinks, soaked in sweat, water dripping messily through his scruff and down his neck.  Honest to God, he’s like something straight out of those shitty porn videos Jim used to keep stashed under his mattress.  Johnny doesn’t seem to notice he’s befriended the world’s grumpiest Adonis, perfectly content to treat him like a brother.  Jim questions his taste at this point.

Once Billy’s appropriately watered, he holds out his hand to Johnny, who grabs onto it only to be effortlessly hauled to his feet.

“Thanks, mate,” he says with all the cheer in the world.  “Lunch?”

Billy gives a noncommittal grunt which is apparently a yes since Johnny grins and then turns to Jim.

“Coming with?”

Jim shakes his head.

“Thought I’d go by Apollo’s,” he says as casually as he can manage.  Johnny winks at him anyway.

“Good luck.”

_ Ugh._


	8. viii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me? Me neither.

Thomas looks like he got hit by the ass end of an 18-wheeler. Jim hadn’t exactly pinned him as a drinker, but by the way he’s looking, Johnny and him must have kept drinking after Jim left. Briefly, he mourns the loss of his beer, but he can always afford more.

“Hey,” he says. Thomas looks up at him, and instantly he’s smiling. Jim can’t help it; he smiles back.

“Hey, slugger,” Thomas says, stepping over to the till.

“Coffee and a ham sandwich,” says Jim. He’s consistent, all right?

“Black, medium roast?”

Jim nods and then thumbs through his wallet, but Thomas doesn’t move.

“Hey, uh… I wanted to apologize for last night. That was incredibly inappropriate.”

Jim pauses, looking up from his wallet. Thomas is frowning, genuine concern colouring his expression. For a second, it feels absurd, and then Jim remembers some people have, uh, boundaries.

“Right. Well, no. I mean, it’s fine.” Jim grinds his teeth together, trying to answer without coming off as much like an ass as usual. “What I… I am trying to say is I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

The look on Thomas’ face is absolutely priceless. Colour fills his cheeks, spreading outwards as he processes this. Jim can’t imagine what exactly he’s thinking, but the variety of expressions he makes before answering is something to behold.

“I, ah… Congratulations?”

He hands Jim his coffee.

“God, no,” Jim answers, picking up the coffee and taking a slow sip.

“No?” Thomas repeats, watching Jim, trying to read him.

“Not my type.” A lie, apparently, but he’ll admit as much on his death bed.

“Are you sure? He _seemed_ like your type.”

Jim gives Thomas an exasperated look.

“Please stop trying to ruin your own chances at dinner with me tonight.”

“Oh,” says Thomas. “ _Oh_.”

“6?” asks Jim.

“7.”

Jim takes his sandwich and then looks around for a seat.

“See you tonight,” he says, and then walks away. Absurdly, his first urge is to take out his phone and tell Johnny, only to realize he doesn’t have his number.

*

Jim nearly has a heart attack when his apartment buzzer goes off later that night. The only visitors he really gets are Johnny and his editor. Johnny knocks, and his editor just lets herself in. Not that he can blame her. They’ve known each other for the better part of a decade, and he’s not so great with anything except finishing his books before his deadlines. He doesn’t attend press events, won’t do signings, never comes to any meetings at the publishing house. He won’t even come in to sign the paperwork. In other words, if he weren’t so good at what he does, he’d have been in trouble a long time ago. Maybe she just likes him.

Fumbling, he stares blankly at his living room while trying to figure out where the sound has come from. It sounds again. With a grunt, he snatches the phone off the wall.

“Who is it?”

“Thomas. Sorry I’m early.”

Jim looks down at his phone. It’s 6:47. Grunting, he holds down the button to unlock the door and then hangs up. Immediately, he does a slow turn, taking stock of his apartment. He slams his laptop shut and shoves away the edited copy of his latest manuscript. Then he grabs every sweater he sees (When did he acquire this many jumpers? His collection seems to be growing) and stuffs it into his bedroom closet. The kitchen is a mess in its own right.

He’s in the middle of loading the dishwasher when there’s a knock on the door. His heart drops into his stomach. God help him, he’s nervous. He could vomit.

Closing the dishwasher, Jim wipes his hands on his jeans and then makes his way to the door, pulling it open in a way that he hopes doesn't seem rushed, but he can feel the flush in his cheeks, the frown scrunching up his face.

"Hey!" Thomas says, good natured as ever. He's smiling again. Jim smiles back.

"Hey. Come in."

"Oh, sure. Just let me know when you're ready to go."

Jim clears his throat.

"I'm... Cooking, actually."

"Oh."

Thomas toes off his shoes and they stare at each other for a long moment.

Fuck.

Turning away, Jim rolls up his sleeves and walks into the kitchen. There are a few seconds of silence before he hears Thomas behind him.

"Your place doesn't look like Johnny's flat at all," Thomas remarks, and Jim gives a snort as he pulls things out of the fridge.

"That's because I have furniture."

Thomas’ laugh sounds ridiculously close, and it’s not until Jim straightens up that he realizes the other man is standing less than a metre away, a good-natured smile on his face.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Um.”

Thomas is watching him expectantly. Jim feels too warm, heat rising to his cheeks. He sets pieces of thick steak down on the counter and then uncovers a bowl of marinated vegetables, the scent of spices filling the air as he peels away the cellophane.

“I was just gonna grill some steaks and vegetable skewers,” he admits, reaching over to pull open the plastic skewer packaging. Thomas reaches over at the same time, and Jim snaps his hand away like he’s been burned. Thomas, bless his heart, doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

“I’ll do it.”

With a flustered look, Jim puts the skewer sticks back down and instead heads out onto his balcony to turn on the barbecue. He stands there, keeping close to the gas flame, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep out the cool breeze. He stares out into the city, the sprawling buildings and crawling cars. It feels small, distant and not quite real. He blinks out at the horizon.

“Hey,” Thomas says, stepping through the door. He says something that Jim doesn’t hear, because he’s watching him, heart pounding in his chest. He feels an ache he can’t name as he stares at Thomas, who is watching him, patient.

“Pardon?”

Thomas holds up the plateful of skewers.

“These are all done. Did you want them now or later?”

The aching feeling gets stronger. Jim feels sick with it, feels like he’s forgotten something _so_ damn important and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t figure out what it was. His vision blurs for a few brief moments, self-hatred welling inside of him, until he blinks it away. The patient expression on Thomas’ face turns to one of concern.

“Jim?”

He comes in closer, and the aching intensifies. Thomas wipes his hands on his pants, and then he cups Jim’s cheek. His thumb slides slowly over his skin and comes away wet. It takes a second swipe from the same thumb for Jim to figure out that he’s crying.

“I..” He feels an urgent need to wipe that concerned expression away from Thomas’ face, but he can’t make himself move, can’t make himself say anything. He feels horrible, aching and vulnerable.

“Hey.” Thomas’ voice is soft, warm and forgiving. In this instant, it is everything. “Hey, Jim. It’s all right.”

He opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he hears, just barely, as Thomas’ arms wrap around him and pulls him in. He tucks his face into Thomas’ shoulders. Fingers card slowly through his hair, and he stands there, curling in closer for long moments.

Finally, Thomas cups his face, tilting it up.

“Long day?” Thomas asks, and he finds himself nodding. “Okay.” Thomas’ thumb is still stroking his jaw. “Go sit. I’ll cook.”

Jim wants to protest, point out that he said he was going to, but Thomas gives him a smile and nudges him with an elbow, so he walks inside and he sits. He grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table, wipes his eyes and then blows his nose, leaning back into the sofa in silence. He almost falls asleep there, jerking to alertness when Thomas walks in with steaming, sizzling food.

“Hey,” he says, then sits down beside Jim. “So, I’m not the best cook in the world, but I had a little sample before I came in, and it seems all right.”

Jim finds the corners of his mouth curling up, endeared.

They eat and they make small talk. Thomas talks about work, about his mother, and his best friend while growing up. They discuss bands, which Star Trek is the best (they can’t come to a consensus, but they do agree that Enterprise is the worst), what they wanted to be when they grew up.

It’s…. Nice, and by the end of their meal, Jim is pink-cheeked and laughing. He runs a hand slowly over the back of his own head, and that’s when he notices the way Thomas is looking at him, face split into a wide smile, eyes simmering with something that can only be called desire. He feels caught out, staring back.

“You have a really nice laugh,” Thomas tells him, moving in closer, not that there’s much distance between them in the first place, something he’s just noticing. He looks up from the place where their legs are touching to Thomas’ eyes, and then his breath hitches, because Thomas’ hand is on the back of his neck. “I’d really like to kiss you.”

Jim feels like all of the air in his lungs is gone as he remembers the drawn in, wanting feeling that Thomas brews inside of him all at once. Just one look from those sweet eyes and he’s weak for it.

“Yes,” he near-whispers, leaning in.

Thomas kisses him, a dry brush of lips, and when Jim doesn’t immediately balk or bite, he leans in a little further, kissing him a little more firmly.

It devolves quickly from there. Thomas’ hand at the nape of his neck curls in his hair, yanking his head back by force so he can litter his neck in open-mouthed, sucking kisses. Jim leans into him, lust drunk, and then Thomas’ hands are on his hips, pulling Jim into his lap. They fumble for a moment before Jim settles with a knee on either side of Thomas’ thighs, taller than him like this, not that he isn’t _always_ taller than him, even if he feels weak and kittenish here, astride Thomas who is kissing him like his life depends on it, hands wandering over like its his god given right, and honestly, Jim isn’t sure it’s _not_.

“Oh,” he manages, soft and breathless when Thomas grabs handfuls of his ass, squeezing and drawing him in closer.

“I could kiss you forever,” Thomas rasps out, teeth nipping along his carotid with dirty determination. He’s going to leave a fucking mark, and Johnny’s never going to let it go, and his publisher is going to scowl at him, and he doesn’t care.

“Please,” he says, helpfully, and the sound that comes out of Thomas is the most aggressive thing that he’s ever heard from him. He grabs Jim by the scruff of his neck, gathering the back of his shirt while he’s at it and tugs.

“Lie down,” Thomas practically order.

“What?”

“I’m going to blow you, so lie down,” Thomas says. “Please,” he amends when Jim doesn’t go immediately.

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’. Now, please.”

Jim can’t move quickly enough, scrambling out of Thomas’ lap to lay on his back on the sofa, eyes wide and heart pounding as Thomas crawls over him, kissing him again and reaching for his jeans, unbuckling his belt with painful slowness.

The sound of his belt and zipper feel too loud in the quiet, nothing but the sounds of metal and kissing; then Thomas reaches into his trousers and cups him through his underwear and he has to bite back a moan, face heating as he jerks, arching up into Thomas’ palm. Thomas rumbles, pleased, against his mouth, and then he’s kissing down, down, down, taking Jim’s jeans with him until they’re around his ankles, and then in a heap on the floor as Thomas mouths at the tent in his boxers.

He pulls a rubber out of… somewhere—to be fair to Jim, his attention is a little divided at the moment—and then pulls down Jim’s boxers, tearing open the packaging soon after. He groans a little as Thomas touches him in order to roll the condom on. He leaves his hand at the base, squeezing lazily while he looks up at Jim through half open, eager eyes.

“You look so sweet like this,” he murmurs, and then he runs his tongue over the tip of Jim’s dick, and Jim swears that every drop of blood left in his body goes to his dick. Thomas chuckles—must be the look on his face, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, helplessly aroused—and then he runs his tongue along him again before sliding down, lazy and practiced. Thomas knows what he’s doing, and the wicked gleam in his eye says that he intends to use that against the man under him.

It doesn’t take long to get him dripping pre into the rubber, the wet heat and skillful tongue driving him easily to the edge.

“Thomas, I’m—” is all he manages, hands scrambling, one fisting in Thomas’ shirt. The brunette hums around him and keeps going. Even when Jim bucks up, unable to control himself, Thomas takes it, easy as anything, barely gagging before he relaxes and lets Jim fuck into his throat through his orgasm. Once he finally sinks down into the cushions of the sofa, panting for breath, Thomas slides off of him, tying off the condom and tossing it into the trash. He grabs a tissue and cleans Jim off before tucking him back into his boxers. They have apparently both decided that his pants are too far.

Thomas lays down lazily behind him, pulling him and kissing him, his own erection a warm line against Jim’s ass.

It’s like that that Johnny finds them.


End file.
